Wednesday, July 29, 2015

But please don't think I'm in shock. I'm neither shaken up nor am I confused. And I'm much too numb to be horrified—that one might say the most.

The video was footage from the body camera of a University of Cincinnati police officer, Ray Tensing, as he shot an unarmed black civilian, Sam DuBose, in the head. At point blank range. You may have heard of the case. Then again you may not have; these things have a way of eluding some people's radars. Blissful ignorance will always have an appeal.

But, being black, I don’t have the luxury of ignorance. So instead, I’m trying to gather my thoughts.

I want to point to the blatancy of Tensing’s act. Here is a law enforcement officer plainly ignoring standard written procedure; procedure that’s taught and drilled into police officers around the country every day. Procedure that far too many police officers choose to forgo when the face they encounter is African American. But pointing out the obvious inevitably feels empty, especially when we’ve seen it all before.

Over the past 354 days since Michael Brown’s murder at the hands of Officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, MO we’ve seen what seems like 354 unarmed, presumably innocent black men and women die at the hands of police officers across the country. An endless, devastating crawl of hashtagged names have crossed social media timelines. Tamir Rice. Akai Gurley. Sandra Bland. Freddie Gray. Trayvon Martin.

It’s not even the first time we’ve seen an act of brazen murder on video. The chokehold that suffocated Eric Garner and the gunshots to the back that felled Walter Scott were replayed on endless loops by news programs. Rice’s murder should have trumped all in the world of infotainment, as surveillance cameras focused directly on the scene captured a Cleveland police officer, without warning or cause, firing bullets into a 12-year-old boy who was playing in a park. What more can be said, what more naiveté can be clenched onto when the brutal murder of a child is videotaped, watched, replayed, digested, and forgotten by the mass populace?

I remember being horrified when Rice’s story broke, and the video was released. Eight months and one week later, I’m numb.

I have the strange, at times surreal perspective of being half white. The majority of people who surround me on a daily basis, both professionally and personally, are white. Most are open-minded, understanding, and sympathetic. Some are even outraged. But not all of them. And that’s when this entire dynamic gets awkward. Because that’s when I have to engage in, oversee, or willfully ignore the conversations. The latter doesn’t happen all that often, because I don’t have the luxury of ignorance.

I have one friend, a white male under 30, who met the Baltimore protests over Freddie Gray’s murder with an unyielding refrain of, “You have to respect the police.” No amount of reasoning would move him from this point.

No sensible black man, woman, or child doesn’t know and practice this. The irony is we often have no choice but to practice this. Fear of what would happen, if the mere impression of disrespect was even inferred, keeps us heel-toeing with sweat on our brows the second a police officer pulls us over. But it doesn’t work. Sam DuBose was anything but disrespectful. I dare you to even say he was confrontational. And yet he lost his life.

What’s more, for every case of a docile, respectful black citizen being killed by someone in a police uniform, there are five cases of belligerent, threatening white people unflinchingly attacking police officers and living to make bail.

The flaw in the “You have to respect the police” philosophy is that it’s predicated on a fairytale. It relies on the gullible belief that the police are always, and without exception, offering respect in return. But there are exceptions—thousands of them. And if you’re a person of color, you have to treat those exceptions as the rule.

I have respect for the police. But I also have rights as a human being. And while my friend can rely on his rights being recognized whether he is or isn’t being respectful, I cannot. Instead I have to deal with an armed individual who may very well let his or her thoroughly-uninformed expectations of who I am override the training that he or she has received, and the respect that he or she should instinctively maintain.

I’m not in shock. I’m afraid.

I’m afraid I’ll be Sam DuBose. Or Freddie Gray. Or one of the hundreds of other innocent black men and women murdered by police officers. I’m afraid one or more of my friends will die in a jail cell when all he or she did was change lanes without signaling. I’m even more afraid that a member of my family will suffer that fate. I’m afraid I’ll experience both the joy of having children, and the unimaginable sorrow of someday watching video of a police officer shooting them dead on a playground without provocation or thought. I’m afraid those who defend the police officers will never come to understand why I’m afraid. I’m afraid it’s never going to change.

Monday, July 27, 2015

This week's inspiration is the beautiful Ms. Daniella Chavez. I've been trying for like 20 minutes to come up with something clever to say about her jaw-dropping curves, but all I've come up with so far is "Good lawd..."

If you've paid any attention to entertainment news lately, you know Adam Sandler's new flick Pixels is getting eviscerated by critics. MovieBob, it seems, felt that's not strong enough. So he went nuclear.

Holy hell. I feel like he was actively pissing on a picture of Sandler's face and spitting while he raged that one out. Sometimes I wonder if disastrous press like this makes Sandler sit in a dark room crying like a little baby. Then he releases another terrible film, and makes it abundantly clear that he really doesn't give a fuck.

Monday, July 13, 2015

This starts a little slow, but once they get down the basics, these seniors take off with it.

I hate dancing, as a general rule. I've never understood the need to dance at clubs, weddings, etc. You mean I got showered and dressed up only to get all sweaty from jumping around? Can't we just sit/stand here and get drunk instead?

The only time dancing is acceptable is when it's hilarious and/or adorable. So basically, if it's being done by little kids or by senior citizens. And that's it.

Of course, if this week's inspiration, Sheilinha, wants to dance around, I won't be mad about it.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

It’s been too long since I’ve let my brain loose. I’ve spent weeks, months caging it in spreadsheets, business plans, and emails. In Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat—even Google+. Cruelty, thy name is a computer screen.

Ironic, then, that I’m curing that with…another computer screen. Whatever. This is free-form writing. It doesn’t have to make sense.

Of course, free-form writing has now been co-opted by blogging. I blog, but typically do so with a set purpose. A subject, some opinions about said subject, maybe a funny video or a scintillating picture to support said opinions about said subject… I’ve lived in that wheelhouse for years now. Sure, it gets lonely on weekends and the landlord hasn’t fixed the leaky roof, but… Whatever. It doesn’t have to make sense.

Boredom is to blame for this rare, random break from the mundane normality of—and, as some might point out, scarce population of—this blog. I’m bored on a Thursday night. Of course, you could replace “Thursday” in that sentence with any of the other six days, and you’d probably still be right. Welcome to your late thirties. Life starts to feel like a warning message to the 20somethings around you.

“The end is nigh! Enjoy the late night booty calls, lack of worry about…anything, and feeling like the envy of the rest of the world!”

Sounds like fun, right? Ah, what am I talking about. No 20somethings are sitting at a computer screen reading this right now. You’re all out tweeting your twerkers and Tindering your Instagrams. Damn kids.

Me, I’m sipping a glass of bourbon and sitting here. Wondering what’s next. Maybe I’ll just go watch the news. Whatever. It doesn’t have to make sense.

This Chinese game show starts with two women hitting the streets in search of contestants–each carrying a rubber chicken, because why not. Once the men have been chosen, they’re taken to a competition stage where each woman gives a hand job and the first man to…finish, wins.

My question is, what happens to the guy who loses? Do they just leave him like that? Don't they know guys can die from blue balls? I mean, that's just science.

Monday, July 6, 2015

The only thing that could possibly make the USA's win in last night's Women's World Cup final better is a Mexican play-by-play announcer. Thankfully, NBC Deportes has just that.

I wish all announcers had that kind of passion for the games they call. Can you imagine Al Michaels losing his shit on Sunday Night Football when Odell Beckham, Jr. does this? Or Doc Emrick pounding his chest and screaming every time Evgeni Malkin snaps a wristshot past a goalie? Well, that one kind of already happens. But you get my point. Passion is what makes sports so exciting. And Mexican announcers have that in spades.

Speaking of "Mexicans" and "passion," this week's inspiration is the world's favorite meteorologist, Yanet Garcia:

Thursday, July 2, 2015

What if the biased stance, the pointed rhetoric, and the loaded questions were all focused on the white side of the spectrum?

Chris Hayes is a national treasure for this.

Props go to my buddy GG for bringing this clip to my attention by posting it on Facebook. The comment immediately after mine in the resulting thread was an older white woman of some familiarity with GG (who is also white). Her response? "People do crazy thing when in a crowd..regardless of their skin color".

I think that's the first time that someone missing the point has simultaneously served to highlight the point.

For this '98 track off Soul Survivor, his first solo studio album, Pete Rock teamed up with two of the most brilliant—but least heralded—emcees in the game. Deck's star often got outshined by his Wu brethren, and Kurupt was perpetually deep in Snoop and Dre's shadows. But each of these two men were well equipped to spit straight fire, and took full advantage of the opportunity that Pete Rock handed to them.